The Small Assassin
by sinnerforhire
Summary: Response to Livia's Bradbury title challenge. What if Lex hadn't discovered Clark on the scarecrow pole?


They should have known.  
  
They should have learned.  
  
They should have thought back to 1989, to the scarecrow that had fallen into a coma before   
coming down from the cross. Of course, there had been that one little aberration that year;   
namely, the meteor shower that had forever changed the town and the lives of everyone in it.  
  
Especially the lives of the two people standing in front of the coffin.  
  
"Do you want to make a wish?"  
  
A three-year-old girl in a fairy princess costume had managed to succeed where God,   
modern medicine, and the government had failed--to grant one simple wish.  
  
She can still feel him in her arms, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, as they stared in wonder at   
the charred black pod half-buried in the crater.  
  
"We didn't find him. He found us."  
  
We didn't find himÉ  
  
She'll never forget those last few days full of harsh words and heartache, fear and relief and   
more fear crashing over all of them like waves on a breaker. She'll wish forever that they   
could have just waited one more week before turning his life upside-down and sideways,   
before changing all of their lives so thoroughly that soon they would be unable to remember   
a simpler time, a happier time. SheÕll wish forever that those last few days could have been   
filled with hugs and laughter and warm apple pie instead of space pods and suspicion.   
  
Those last few days will be the rest of her life.  
  
She leans into the strong embrace and knows that he has his own regrets eating away at his   
soul. If only he had signed that permission slip. If only he had let him keep the truck. If   
only he had kept his mouth shut about the tablet and the storm cellar. If only he could have   
known that those days would be his son's last, everything would have been different. He   
could have been happy. He could have gotten *his* only wish--"to go through high school   
without being a total loser." Of course, he never would have gotten through high school, but   
at least he could have been happy contemplating what would have been. That he could have   
won the big game and gotten the girl.   
  
He deserved that much.  
  
At least.  
  
He deserved so much *more* than that, though. So much more. And he should have   
gotten it. He was meant for great things. They had been convinced of that since the day in   
the field so long ago. He was meant for greatness.  
  
Not for this.  
  
Not for a mahogany box and trite, lifeless words on a stone.  
  
Not for a rough, wooden cross and an agonizingly painful death by a stone.  
  
He glares at that stone, dangling so innocently from the slender neck of the dark-haired girl   
who, long ago, had granted them their life-altering wish. She had done so much for them.   
And, though she never knew it, she had meant so much to *him.* As far as *he* was   
concerned, it was for her and only her that the sun rose in the morning and set at night. It   
was for her that birds sang and flowers blossomed. It was for her he longed, and for her he   
was prepared to wait forever.  
  
It was for her that he had died.  
  
At the hands of another *kid* just like him, he had died for daring to care for her.  
  
It didn't make sense.  
  
Nothing made sense anymore. He could see that in the faces of each and every person   
gathered near him, like living, breathing mirrors. Mirrors that he couldn't escape. They all   
had their own reasons for feeling the way they did, but they all felt variations of the same   
sentiments--anger, guilt, sorrow, loss, griefÉ  
  
Even those, he thought, who didn't deserve to feel anything. Who he didn't think *could*   
feel anything.   
  
They were all so strongly connected, yet so distant that they might as well have been on   
separate worlds.   
  
Separate worlds.  
  
Had others grieved for him before, on another world? Had others once gathered together to   
bid farewell to this sweet soul? Was it worse for him, having lost two lives instead of just   
one? How many people had this boy touched in his short life?  
  
And were there more he could touch now?  
  
Did yet another life await?  
  
Was he still meant for great things?  
  
"Yes," he whispered, laying the white rose gently atop the coffin. "You are meant for great   
things."  
  
finis 


End file.
